


Damn weather

by BromeliadLucy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, Marvel Universe, marvel AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 09:46:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8619616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BromeliadLucy/pseuds/BromeliadLucy
Summary: This was written after I got soaked through and miserable, sadly my day didn't end quite like this!





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the wonderful Emilyevanston on Tumblr who made my day better <3

You couldn’t actually get any wetter now, you were pretty sure. Your umbrella had been turned inside out and was now dumped in the nearest bin, accompanied by muttered cursing. Your boots, it turned out, had a hole in the sole and now one foot was wet and squelching. One wet foot was somehow worse than two, although the toes on both feet were numb with cold. Your coat, advertised as waterproof, was apparently only proof against water that was in a sealed box a mile away. Water that was falling down from the sky was too much for it. Your hands were red with cold, your nose probably matched, and your hair was plastered to your face. 

You were standing by the side of the road, trying to get across, eyes firmly fixed on the bright windows of the café opposite. The windows were fogged with steam, telling you just how warm it would be if you could just get across and in there. You wanted to wrap your hands around a warm mug of coffee, let the steam unlock the frozen muscles on your face, warm up just for half an hour or so before you faced the walk home. But you couldn’t get across. The traffic was constant, cars rushing past, headlights shining on the wet road, wheels hushing in the rain. You let out a sigh of frustration.

“Damn traffic, huh?”

You looked up, surprised. You’d been so busy trying to blink the water off your eyelashes that you hadn’t realised there was someone else standing waiting now. Someone… oh… wow. Someone very attractive. He gave you a half-smile, that smile of recognition, of fellow feeling, that said ‘look at the two of us, standing here all wet, while these drivers zoom past all dry’. You couldn’t help but smile back; the way his mouth turned up at the corners was impossible to resist.

Suddenly you were even more aware of your state. Unconsciously, you stood a little straighter, tried to ignore the cold rain that trickled down the back of your neck when you did so. You pushed the hair off your face, wishing that you could manage at least ‘damp otter’ or ‘moist mouse’, or whatever the slightly more appealing version of ‘drowned rat’ would be. You smiled, half to yourself, at the way your mind was wandering – it always did, you had whole universes going on inside your brain – and the man grinned back.

“Sucks, right? I’m pretty much as wet as I can be, I think.” Oh, you shouldn’t have said that. Because then it hit you. Literally. A lorry, steaming past, drove through the huge puddle of water in the gutter and drenched you both. Dirty, muddy, exhaust-laden, blocked gutter, leaf-filled water. Head to toe. You let out a shriek of rage and cold and general fury at the world as the lorry steamed off. You turned your head towards the man. His mouth was open in shock, mimicking what you were sure you looked like. You both had your hands out as if in disbelief, standing, water pouring off you. 

“Shit, I’m going to rust!”

You stared at him. He sounded so sincere, so anxious, that you just couldn’t take it anymore. You were now, officially, so wet that you couldn’t be wetter. Wet, filthy, suddenly it didn’t matter. You threw back your head and laughed out loud. He stared at you, a look of confusion on his face as you bent over to try and catch your breath, then you heard him snort, and then snigger, and then join you. Things had got as bad as they could, so really, laughter was the only choice.

“Hey, my friend owns that café, come on, he’ll let us dry off.”

He held your arm with his right one, and you both decided to just risk it. The traffic was going slowly now, visibility in the rain too risky, so he marched you both across the road, holding his left arm out to stop the traffic as you both giggled your way across. He let go of your arm as you reached the other pavement, then held the café door open and bowed you in.

The café was warm. Warm, filled with the whooshing noise of the coffee maker, the smell of fresh, warm cake, the clinking and bustle of conversation. You looked over at the man, then down at yourself. You were both dripping muddy water on to the clean floor.

“Steeeeve!” He called out, pitifully. “Steeeve, we’re drowning here, we’re gonna need coffee and cake and towels or we’re gonna flood this place!” He grinned at you again, that infectious, inclusive grin, that was impossible to resist. A head behind the counter turned and took in your state. The man – Steve – was impossibly tall, ridiculously blond, and was now shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

“I swear, Buck, I don’t know how you get yourself into these situations!” He nodded you through a door marked ‘staff only’, adding “you know where everything is.” As the door shut behind you, you heard the cry “you know where the mop is Buck…”

The door cut off the café noise and you found yourself in a small staff room, stacked around the edges with shelves full of coffee beans, mugs, napkins and boxes. There was a staff fridge and sink, a sofa, and, oh blessedly, a drier. The man – Buck? – was ferreting around in a cupboard, pulling out towels and what looked like some clothes.

“Steve’s always leaving stuff here, knew he’d have some spares.” He tossed you a towel, and something else, which you shook out, finding a giant-sized sweatshirt, obviously built for the man behind the counter. It would be enormous on you, but it was dry. You held it at a distance from your wet coat, not knowing quite what he expected of you – to strip off in front of him? He smiled again, pointed at a door across the room. 

“There’s a bathroom in there. At least we can dry your top clothes, I’m not expecting you to take your trousers off.” He’d obviously read your mind, and you flushed a little as you made your way through the door.

The bathroom was tiny, and you banged your elbows repeatedly as you tried to squeeze out of damp clothes and towel yourself off, but eventually you were, at least, less damp on top. You pulled the sweatshirt on and found it came practically to your knees. You paused for a moment then, screw it, peeled off your soaked trousers from your legs, and your socks, then checked that the sweatshirt was decent – you’d worn skirts shorter than this, much to your mother’s horror – and then opened the door, peering out in case the man was in the middle of stripping.

He’d obviously been quicker than you, had pulled on another sweatshirt, although this one fit him, and what looked like a pair of shorts pulled from someone’s gym bag. He was stuffing his clothes into the dryer when he looked up at the sound of the door opening.

“Wanna shove your stuff in? Steve’s bringing in coffee, I promise neither of us is some kind of crazy person.” You saw him look down, take in your bare legs, look for perhaps slightly longer than he should have done before he pulled his eyes back up. “I’ll, um, see if Stevie has any more gym shorts around…”

You shoved your clothes in, and turned to hang your dripping coat up on a hook. It was a bit of a stretch and as you turned back, you realised that your stretch had probably made the sweatshirt ride up to around the height that had your mother fake-clutching her heart and wondering where she’d gone wrong. Seems like the man had noticed it too, from the way his eyes flew up to your face as you turned. You probably shouldn’t have done, but you winked, and he laughed out loud at being caught. His laugh was beautiful, unabashed, delighting in the ridiculousness of the situation.

He held out his hand. “Bucky, by the way” and you shook hands, telling him your name. Just as the pause was about to become awkward, the door opened and Steve came in. He’d pushed the door open with his back, and as he turned to enter the room, he smiled at your outlandish appearance. You were well aware that as well as wearing only a sweatshirt with sleeves that dangled past your hands, your hair was like a bird’s nest and your face was probably all kinds of shiny as it warmed up in the steamy heat. Right now though, you didn’t care. Steve was carrying a tray with two big mugs of coffee and two giant slices of cake and that was where all your attention was directed.

“Crazy busy out here Buck, help yourself to whatever you need – looks like you already have though – I’ve got someone off sick, gotta get back out there.” He nodded at you, waved a hand once he’d put the tray down. “Nice to meet you, drenched girl in my sweatshirt.” He laughed at his own conversation, clutching one hand to his chest as he left the room. 

You flung yourself on the sofa, pulling the sweatshirt down over your knees as you sat and grabbed at the coffee, moaning with pleasure at the first over-hot swallow. You picked up the cake and took a bite, groaning again as you licked icing off your lips, then looked up to see Bucky staring at you. You swallowed, embarrassed, then noticed that he was holding his arm at a strange angle. You put the coffee and cake back down, swallowed nervously again in case this was some preliminary move before he set on you.

“Um, Bucky? Are you OK? Your… arm…”

He looked at you sheepishly, scratched the back of his neck with his right hand as he looked down, away from your eyes.

“I – I wasn’t joking about rusting.” 

He reached up with his right hand, pulled the sleeve on his elevated left arm down and you gasped. You hadn’t noticed that he was wearing a glove before, it had been covered by the bundle of clothes, and then you’d been distracted by the cake. But as he pulled the sleeve back, he revealed a shining, metal, arm.

You pushed yourself upright, kneeling backwards on the sofa to look. He looked awkward, shy, now.

“That is so awesome!” He looked up, surprised perhaps at your enthusiasm. “Waaait, are you serious, it’s rusted?”

He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking up and out of control. He really was good looking, now you looked at him properly. Dark, wavy hair, now standing on end after it’s mud-bath, towel-dry and embarrassed-ruffling. Crazy strong jawline covered in just the right amount of stubble, and rain-grey eyes that you could drown in.

“OK, not rusted, but… it’s seized up. It got damaged the other day and now when the rain gets into the motors, it just… stops.”

He looked so uncomfortable, standing with one arm raised as if he was playacting Superman, you were torn between giggling and sympathy.

“Is there anything I can do? Can I, like… pull it down?” You really had no idea what you did to unstick a man’s mechanical arm but you did want to help, and you really wanted to know more about this man with his motorised arm. 

Bucky hid his face in his right hand and groaned. “Oh god, this is so awkward, I know, and it’s going to sound like the worst kind of pick up line, but Steve’s gonna be too busy for hours, or I’d ask him…” His voice tailed off, and he rubbed his hand over his face, avoiding your eyes, then walked round and flung himself down on the sofa. You sat back down, arranging the sweatshirt for decency, and tried to meet his gaze.

“Go on?”

He let out a deep breath, then looked at you, mouth quirked in an apologetic smile.

“Can you oil up my arm?” 

You laughed. Of course you did. It was so far from how you expected the day to go. Here you were wearing an oversized sweatshirt in the backroom of a café, being asked to oil a man’s roboarm. You let out a giant belly laugh of surprise, and thumped him on his frozen shoulder, screeching out another laugh as you heard motors whining inside the metal.

“I’m sorry, but if that’s your kind of pick up line, I can’t decide if I’m terrified or impressed at your style.”

His mouth twitched, and then twitched again, and then you were both laughing, and somehow you’d agreed.

You stopped laughing when you helped him take the sweatshirt off. Partly because it was damn awkward pulling clothes off a stranger with one arm frozen in mid-air, especially when you were trying not to reach too high and reveal your own underwear. But partly because as you finally managed to pull it off, and his head was hidden inside the shirt, you froze too, at the sight of his muscles.

“Um, hello? Little help? Please don’t leave me to die in someone else’s gym clothes!” His voice was muffled by his awkward position and the thick fabric. You quickly carried on undressing him – no, don’t think of it like that, you didn’t know this man, think of it as ‘helpfully removing an impediment to you assisting him with his mechanical difficulties’. Yup, much better.

His muscles were magnificent and your mouth probably did drop open a little more than it should have done, but when you looked at his face, you saw how uncomfortable he looked. Uncomfortable with his shoulder pulled upwards, and at what was a whole mess of scarring being exposed. You were nothing if not kind, so you didn’t comment.

“OK, so, where’s your, um, oil?”

Once he’d told you, you dug through his coat pockets and found a small jar of motor oil. You stood behind the sofa and could see the damage – a dent in the shell had left gaps between some of the metal plates, where water had obviously got in. As Bucky directed you, you carefully dripped oil through in various places, conscious as you lent over him of the warmth, and masculine scent, coming off his skin. Finally he stopped directing you, then using his right arm, he started trying to work the left up and down. You heard metal protesting, motors whirring in protest, then gradually the shrill rasp of metal softened, and the motors began to purr, and there was just a soft hushing noise as metal plates slid against one another. He flexed his fingers, rotated his wrist, then stretched and straightened his elbow, finally rolling his shoulder, and then letting his hand rest in his lap with a sigh of relief.

“Thanks. That was kinda a lot to ask of someone I’ve only just met. I appreciate it.” He smiled at you, the sweetest smile, that tugged on your heart, then pulled his sweatshirt and glove back on hurriedly, covering up his arm.

“This coffee and cake is so good, it’s totally worth being asked to lube up a stranger.” You winked at him again as his head popped through the neckhole, and the laughter removed any last traces of awkwardness.

You stayed there for hours, Bucky popping out to get refills of coffee, sandwiches, more cake. The rain beat on the window, and the dryer hummed, and you talked as if you’d known each other for years. You didn’t ask about his arm, but after a while he thanked you again, and volunteered some information.

“The man who fixes my arm is back in America, so I’m kind of stuck. Literally. My own fault, I got kinda drunk last week and dinged my arm up pretty bad, but I’m due to fly out in a coupla days, get it sorted if I can put up with the crap he’ll give me. ‘Do you know how much this arm cost?’ ‘Why can’t you take better care of it?’ He’ll be OK though, he loves to tinker around. I swear one day I’ll go in for a service and come out with laser fingers.” He grins at you. You’re both relaxed on the sofa now, feet up on a cardboard box, heads leaning back. “This damn British weather though, I keep getting damp in my joints. God, that makes me sound like I’m 95!”

Eventually, the dryer finished, and you both put on crisp, hot clothes, you in the bathroom again. You wriggled your toes inside warm socks; pulled on your own, normal sized, jumper; squeezed into slightly shrunken jeans, then peered out again. He was dressed, sitting back on the sofa, so you headed back into the room.

“I guess I’d better get going then…” You said reluctantly. This had been a brilliant end to what had seemed a dismal day, and you were loath for it to end, for you to have to step back into the dark, wet, reality of your walk home. You sat down, pulled on cold, wet boots, a reminder of what you were going to have to face.

“I’m here for a couple more days. I’m gonna be here again tomorrow, if you’re free…?” You grinned over at him, then when he pulled out his phone, added your number. He stood up, made to walk you to the staffroom door, politely. As he opened the door, you reached up and kissed him on the cheek. 

“Thanks Bucky.” You waved at Steve, thanking him too, and he gave you a salute as you walked through the café, then you opened the door, hunched your shoulders, and scuttled off through the rain, warmed from the inside by the feel of his skin on your lips.

Bad weather grounded all flights, so you were able to see him three more times before he left. Each time you liked him more. You hung out in the café the first time, chatting with Steve over the counter and laughing as he told you embarrassing stories about Bucky, how it was no surprise he’d busted up his arm, he was always falling off things. The second day, you went to the cinema, looking for somewhere else dry to go. You both went to lean on the armrest at the same time, smiled at each other in the half light as your arms bumped, then, without speaking, each shifted so that you could share the space. You were very conscious of the warmth of his skin next to yours, distracting you from the film. He took you out for dinner after that. Neither of you barely stopped speaking long enough to eat, and eventually the waiter had to come and tell you they were closing up, you’d been talking so long. 

The next day, the airport opened again, so you went with him on the train to say goodbye. It was odd how unwilling you felt to be parted after such a short time but you’d never connected with someone so quickly. You wandered through the airport, full with frustrated passengers desperate to get on long-delayed flights. You’d arrived early, so were walking slower than most, and so you were knocked almost off your feet when someone ran past, delayed and angry, their suitcase clipping your ankles. Bucky’s reflexes were unnaturally sharp, and he’d got his arm around your waist and was holding you up before you realised you were falling. You smiled your thanks at him, curling your body a little closer into his arm. He didn’t remove it, holding you against him as you continued to walk. 

At the gate, when his flight was at last called, you kissed him on the cheek again. He was holding boarding pass, passport, bags, books, clutching things to his chest.

“I’ll be back in a month, can I see you then?” You nodded, thrilled at the idea but wishing the month away already. You stepped back as he turned to go, but before he stepped through the barrier he turned back. His metal arm pulled you in, and he kissed you on the lips, a warm, soft touch, that ended all too soon. He stroked your cheek once with his gloved hand, then turned back.

“Don’t rust, Buck!” you called out and he winked at you over his shoulder as he left.

It got colder over the next month. Christmas was approaching and the rain was turning to sleet and hail. You bought a new coat, had your boots resoled, dropped in to Steve’s café when work days allowed, enjoying the company of this new friend made in such unexpected circumstances. Bucky emailed you, photos of his arm being worked on, showing you the mechanism inside; pictures of New York; silly selfies against a foreign backdrop that made you laugh. Then, five weeks later, you were at the airport again, Arrivals now and not Departures, waiting impatiently, foot tapping, pacing. His flight was circling, unable to land yet due to sudden snow flurries. The board listed delays and more delays, and you could picture him, circling above your head, so near and yet so frustratingly far.

Finally, the display changed and his plane had landed. You watched impatiently, trying to picture him disembarking, then waiting for his case, then walking to the gate… and then there he was. Hair dishevelled from sleeping on the flight, and running his hands through it without thinking; hoodie over a red shirt, his metal hand shoved in the pocket as his other pulled his case; rucksack on his back; and his eyes… searching. Until they spotted you. And then he smiled.

Resting your head against his chest, he leant his cheek on your hair, and you both stood quietly for a moment, the hustle and bustle of other greetings and meetings sounding distant as you listened to his heart beat. You felt him kiss the top of your head, and looked up at him with a smile in your eyes.

“I thought you were never going to land. Stupid weather.”

He held your hand in his metal one, then pulled you close, tucking you against his side and wrapping his arm around your shoulders as you made your way through the airport. Outside, the snow was still coming down and the ground was thickly covered. It was going to be a slow drive home but as far as you were concerned, it could take all the time in the world.

As you made your way across the carpark, slipping and sliding, steadying yourself on the cars, you couldn’t resist rolling a snowball up. Bucky was in front of you, struggling as he dragged his case over the snow.

“Hey Buck?” you called out, and as he turned, you flung the snowball at him, squealing with glee, then gasping as his left arm shot up and without blinking, he caught the snowball, his reflexes astonishing you.

“Oh you are going _down_ ” he growled, abandoning his case and stalking towards you, snowball still in hand. You turned to try and get away but skidded and he caught you. He pulled you in close and you screamed as he dropped the snowball on your hair, icy crystals sliding down your face and neck. You shook your head madly, dislodging as much snow as you could, then tried to pull free. Both arms were clamped around you tightly and you couldn’t move.

“Sorry doll, think it’s seized up again. Guess Tony didn’t do such a great job after all…” He winked at you, pulled you in tighter.

You tilted your head up for a kiss as you slid your hands into the back pockets of his jeans, giggling as you felt the warmth against your skin, and unable to resist a little squeeze.

“Must be catching, think my arms are stuck now too.” Your faces were so close, you could see your own reflection in his eyes becoming clearer as his pupils grew in response to your closeness. Then you closed your eyes, and he kissed you, as the snow fell, unheeded.


End file.
